You Fail To See
by Mind Holds The Key
Summary: Jim Moriarty casually watches life across the roof he stands, Sebastian beside him, nothing particularly out of place, save for the lack of beers to pass the time and the sniper propped and pointed towards the window of flat 221b.Post-Reichenbach.Moriarty
1. What YOU Don't Know

**PLEASE READ IN 1/2 PAGE WIDTH, BUTTON LOCATED ON TOP RIGHT OF PAGE FORMAT OPTIONS- THIS STORY WAS WRITTEN IN 1/2 WIDTH, READING IT OTHERWISE MESSES WITH ORIGINAL SETTING AND FEEL.**

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><p>There are things in this world that you don't know, Sherlock Holmes.<p>

Like who stands on a street corner, watching you walk by.

Or the woman with the umbrella and the child in the stroll, with a dog on a leash, struggling to keep balance of the coffee cup in her only free hand, the one she doesn't regularly use- and you notice this, but you know nothing of the truth of it all.

Surely, yes, you can build an intricate story about her past and her present judging by the way her hair is styled, or how her make-up was spread. But you can't _**define**_ the person behind the shades of colour that scream and cast a tale.  
>Sure her jumper is red, and her pencil skirt is black, and her shoes are flats which delimitates her as runny and too busy to put something together properly, but you aren't capable of seeing what lies under those shades.<p>

And that is your greatest flaw, Sherlock. The incapability of knowing the genuine person under all the lights.

That's why you hit on truths but miss on character emotions, hone in on characteristics other than what's observed. That's why people find that it's easier to hate you than to appreciate your deductions, because you can't, under any circumstance, know who they are as a whole, until after you've sliced away at their ego to tear a piece for yourself, later to shred, finding no vigor in it after a few, mere seconds of bombarding them with callous words, that quite often don't bounce off them as they do with you.

That's your greatest flaw, dearest Sherlock. Your invalid strikes.

You see them like the floor to a pool, though the waters ripples, the cement is still below, cream colored and clear, with scraps of what not staring above at you, at your pale and decisive eyes that should be a mark of innocence, but are, instead, venomous.

It only struck me as odd when you decided to be humane, and completely regard the situation in a manner as if your little pet were threatening to bite your leg if you started your rounds of profiling my little joke of a character, Jim from IT, little _gay_ Jim dating hopeless _Molly Hooper_, who had a thing for people who had_ '-opath'_ at the end of their personality type.

Of course you muttered it, but you didn't fire the bullet, just teased the trigger, maybe toyed with the safety, but the insides of that gun didn't even tremor.  
>And there I stood, and left, completely taken aback, insulted, feeling as though<em> I<em> wasn't good enough for your brilliant deductions, all the while aware that you weren't seeing me for who I truly was, just my water colours that would eventually wash off with your unknowing.

And that was the best part, watching the colour from your pallor face drain when you found the vital clue, the answer to all your mind enraging endless strands- **me**! Me me me, **_gay_** Jim from IT. That's when I realized that I was completely right- you fail to see under our skin, despite how well as you think you can.

Because honey, in this world everyone's a liar. We suck in that gut, we tidy our hair and face, as if all are destined for something big once we get out of bed- and you failed to see that as an entire portrait.

So dearest Sherlock, why do I find a most undefined interest in you? It's not sexual, it's hardly romantic, but it is **obsessive**. But why?  
>Why is it so, when I find that I'm more intelligent than you?- Very much so, in fact, making you prance around and frolic like a buffoon on heat. Oh never mind that, <strong>change of words<strong>- like a dance performance with such_ life_ and _emotion_, with_ frantic_** lands** and** jumps** and **swings** and_** gasps**_.

But you're no grace Sherlock. You're no dancer. You're just a fool, and your mind if your owner.

Without it, I wonder who you'd be?

Just a pale man in tight suits and a black trench. Or maybe a scrap on the street. But who knows with your **_unbearable_** sibling.

So I stand today, across Baker, on a taller roof, standing sideways, my head slightly turned towards the lit windows, chin lightly raised as the brow facing away furrows and the one towards raises, lips lightly pursed at an angle as I contemplate the next move; a looming shadow and you're not even **_aware_**, not even **sensing** it.

"Aim for the head." I repeat, drawly without zeal, towards my accomplice who lays on his belly a few feet away, his hands holding the sniper that's propped on the roofs floor, the long barrel lightly poking over the edge, ready to fire whenever he who's doomed comes into view in the window. Until then we remain in silence, in our still positions, watching.

I wonder what the array of red will do to that nice grey pleather arm chair you claim as yours? The cheap oak table stand, -in between you and that hideous large bulky hardly elegant grandfather death armchair that belongs to your faithful pet-, seems to need a bit more shade to make the oak a nice touch of red mahogany wouldn't you say? And that union jack pillow is hardly fitting without a few strands of _sangria wine_.

But who's to say what is fitting in that room, with a poster of a skull that one would find in a teenage dorm room on one end, a yellow smile with bullet holes, a musical stand besides a bulky disarray of papers and a jackknife in the mantlepiece.

I wonder if you know that some of those forgotten unanswered letters that you decided to skewer were from some very powerful political leaders that needed your assistance after I completely derailed their pitiful lives?

There is a low intake of breath below me, and I don't realize that I've zoned out looking through your window without focus, my accomplice is steadying his breath lightly as he aims.

And there it is, the head, as I've instructed to be popped off and tossed about like confetti.

Low head on tense shoulders, frustrated features, unbelievable impatience sprawled against unsmooth features.

Oh, surely you didn't think I meant to shoot you, love? No no, I _need_ you, not for_ long_, but for now.

But it's night like these when I stroll around the streets like the free and untouchable man I will always be that I begin to think.

The thought is small, at first, so_ tiny_, miniscule, and then it **spreads**, like the roots to a seed, gripping at the soil as it blossoms, and then there it stems and _grows_- only in my mind is works much faster as the neurons in my brain stem out new dendrites, shooting like the cocaine in your syringe under the myelin sheath, flooding through the axon as the nerve impulse shoots like a high off the end buttons of the neuron. And then I **can't take it**. That high is **overbearing**. So I call Seb and I ask him to join me on the roof, with the address across your flat, and we sit here, like most days, weighing our, or rather _my_, options.

Do I give the order and watch your friends head become a party basket? Watch your face as you approach the body, as you come to realize he's dead because of you? Or do I walk away and listen to mother patience in my **head** and wait another day?

"Sir?" Sebastian lets out his breath coolly, with such profession, addressing me as he would to his superior when he was a soldier in Afghanistan, ironically, in John's neighboring unit- Sebastian Moran, the greatest and most _lethal_ of snipers gone **rogue**.

I look down to him, knowing that he's waiting for the order. I notice how he doesn't turn to look at me, laying still, staring through the scope with both eyes open, simply waiting.

What loyalty, I assess, but is it like yours and John's I wonder?  
>Surprisingly, that doesn't make me jealous, that makes me<em><strong> laugh<strong>_ boisterously in my head- only a silent smirk creeps onto my lips. And I realize, this curiosity, your questionability, is driving me **insane**, even more so than with _anyone_ I have ever known.

Looking back towards your window I realize that John is still there, and it seems that you two are having a bit of a quarrel, domestic I wonder, how _adorable_.

Tomorrow however, all will be fine. You two will be having your tea, John his breakfast, and then lights will spark as my innocence is further enforced and I become Richard Brook.

I look to my shoes disapprovingly, as if I've just been scolded.

That's right, the plans I've set, the alias, the fraudulent past, the means of your destruction. I should really just wait and watch that unravel, right?

With a lost smile as if my world has been crushed, I waver lightly as I lift my head again to look down towards your window, and after a long pause, I turn my body towards the edge, facing your home now, as I approach Sebastian and kneel next to him, slowly position myself to lay on my stomach, mimicking my accomplice, my arms moving in a slow gracious manner, controlled from shaking in response to my anger, as I position them as if holding a sniper.

I see Sebastian glance towards me. But he knows me, as well as your John knows you, and he doesn't question me and my antics, much less my performances.  
>He never has, from the start, and now. He simply glances and looks passed them, either not able to be bothered, or care. I should define him as a friend rather than a tool then, huh, right, Sherlock?<p>

But I have no friends, and neither a single one. I am **_me_**, and around me orbits no one but my assassins, sources and clients that lead to riches and ruin.

I close one eye, Sebastian looking through his scope beside me, waiting. I tilt my head lightly, looking through my invisible scope, and I can see my "scopes" hairlines targeting your incognizant friends graying head.

I grin, maliciously, waiting, steadying my breathing, waiting, watching, waiting, almost laughing. He's shouting, arguing, your responding, another day in your dulling life, and i'm here to severe it from continuation.

"POW!" I hiss, as if saying the words aloud would reach your ears even from this distance, pulling my invisible trigger as the bullet tears from beside me, and I lightly jolt in response.

I watch, and then pull my "sniper" away from me, raising my head to look into the window, watching the result.

Your pet shifts, as he shakes his head at your completely nuisance, and he walks away, hands out in defeat.

My grin drops, and now I'm glaring, lips slightly parted.

Sebastian lifts his head, and looks towards me. "Sir?" He addresses again, and I don't look to him as I push my body off the ground and come to a stand, lightly dusting my suit.

"Let's go." I simply say, voice hollow, as I turn towards the door in which we came from, ready to descend down the stairs, not bothering with the fire escape, those see through steps that disorientate me at this late hour.

I hear Sebastian unfasten his unused gun for the night and dismember it with such precision it almost makes me laugh at how proud I am for having such hired men and my heed, as he then stands and follows me quietly.

Tomorrow, Sherlock, I decide. Tomorrow you'll fall from grace.

Tonight John will live, or perhaps will live and suffer depending on the outcome of the following days.  
>For now I'll allow you to relish with what you have currently.<p>

The walk is silent, we exchange no words, and I don't look back towards your window, as you live your unsuspecting mundane life with your _John_.

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><p>AN- I find it so much easer to write in Moriarty's p.o.v or Mycroft's. Should I write an alternate ending? I'm really tempted. If this story proves pointless in regards to reviews and criticizes then I'll just get back to my studies and forget it ever existed lol, cause I'm already behind on my math.  
>As you can guess, the alternate ending would beis super angsty and messy (in a good way).  
>So please review! You won't regret it (I don't think)<p> 


	2. And what I've done

**PLEASE READ IN 1/2 PAGE WIDTH, BUTTON LOCATED ON TOP RIGHT OF PAGE FORMAT OPTIONS- THIS STORY WAS WRITTEN IN 1/2 WIDTH, READING IT OTHERWISE MESSES WITH ORIGINAL SETTING AND FEEL.**

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><p><strong>Alternate ending:<strong>

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><p>I close one eye, Sebastian looking through his scope beside me, waiting.<br>I tilt my head lightly, looking through my invisible scope, and I can see hairlines on your friends graying head.

I grin, maliciously, waiting, steadying my breathing, waiting, watching, waiting, almost laughing.

"**_POW!_**" I hiss, as if saying the words aloud would reach your ears even from this distance.

I watch, and then pull my "sniper" away from me, raising my head to look into the window, watching.

Your pet shifts and staggers, as his body recoils from impact. The bullet had pushed in with ease, and the force pulled as it pierced his skull.

Sebastian is a good shot, and I demanded that he get the back of your John's head, so that you could **see** the life in his eyes go out, rather then a heap of skull and fragments of a_ melon_.

Blood sprays like a fountain for brief moments as a result of the top back of his head being gone, _**ha**_, just shot straight off- the size of the bullet creating such a_ chaotic_ and **messy** outcome, that I wonder what happened to the rest of it as the shell from the sniper drops onto the cement floor with an audible and satisfactory_ 'ding'_.

I watch passed the window, and pull out a small telescope from my breast pocket, fiddling with it excitedly, not pulling my eyes from the movie, almost toppling over the edge and of the building with the amount of_ glee_ emanating from me, blah blah, anxious to _see_ what happens next, bleh bleh.

Fortunately, by the time I can see better, as the scene is magnified through the small lens, while I move it from the window in which the sofa would be situated a bit away from view, where you would perhaps be standing judging by how John stood prior to falling like the carcass he now is-, I see your feet at the top edge of the windows frame as they stager to approach the body that lays slightly out of view from our angle, the back of it's brain sprawled across the ground, almost resembling a Rorschach- on your armchair, on the small oak table, on his grandfather ugly slouch mahogany arm chair, blood pooling at such speed I could almost splash droplets around the puddles if I danced atop it.

But I wouldn't dare,_ no_, don't worry, I must show my respects-  
>To the man who made these beautiful leather shoes, they weren't cheap, not that I don't have enough money to buy a country here and there.<p>

I see as you frantically grab hold of his left shoulder as he lays on his side, his body angling downward as his body leans slightly and rolls of his right should, right arm uncomfortably under him, left arm sprawled out and **oh**_ blessed_ _me_ those** eyes**. Those **hideous dark** blue eyes that look brown under low light are open- **not** wide, **not** narrowed, just _open_, as if looking at someone in the room when conversing, and it's _so_,**_ so_** wonderfully **brilliant!** Because_ there_ you_ are_, and I can tell that you're looking into those eyes as you lay him on his back- and I can only imagine the squishy sound as the back of his smoking skull comes in contact with the ground, as the rest of whatever detached remain in there splashes on the red puddle as it oozes out.

My face suddenly aches and I realize it's because I'm smiling too broadly. I relax the grin lightly, my lips sliding against cold dry teeth.

You scream at him, and it's _so_ funny because you're_ sooooo_ **stupid!** It doesn't take much to _realize_ that he's **dead**. The **back** of his head is missing for God's sake hun! I chuckle lightly as I incoherently mumble some insults under my breath.

You finally look up and out the window, that's now slightly cracked because of the bullet hole on the top half of it, and your face displays an array of **feelings**, gives a painting of so many mixed abstract colors, acrylic paint, oil, because this isn't water colored anymore, this can't be washed off and forgotten, **no no**.

Your face is flushed, your _pale eyes_ wide, manic, brows raised against a forehead spotted red as nerve endings would burst from strain and shock. I narrow my eye in the scope and realize that you're almost at tears as your eyes search past the window.

You glance towards your long dead pet before turning to come to a quick flourished stand, to get a better look outside. You narrow your eyes as you try to see clearly into the night sky, but me and Seb have already backed away from the edge lightly. You won't find us, physically, right now, but even in your sorry state you'd know from the trajectory of entry where we're located- and if you do find the answers, why would it matter? What would you do? Glare at us until you **_exploded_**?

Oh, deary, actually, **don't.** We don't want that yet.

You turn away after a few turns of the head and darts of the eyes and you approach John again, and I can tell by the way that you look up towards the flat entry that the audible scream motions Mrs. Hudson's entry, she has stepped onto the stage before the curtains draped. And like a beautiful audience, the surrounding lights of the neighborhood turn on, like an array of applause.

I look back to you, and your holding John from his upper arms, gripping rather, angling him towards you, his head lolled back, eyes still open, and oh my, looking towards you as if they could still _see_. Hahaha! And oh, what is this? Is the_ great_ **Sherlock Holmes** shaking as a result of a few sobs?

_My_, didn't know your body could shake so violently._ Ohh_ and I can even hear you screaming his name from all the way over here! It's rather pathetic. But then, as if you heard me, you go still, and now you're just in shock, motionless, silently crying.

After awhile, after watching the scene continue, you're holding John, tears tears, crying, et cetera, I hear the wail of sirens screaming from a few blocks down.

My grin drops, and now I'm glaring, lips slightly parted, because now I'm bored, and I can't see and hear and touch the full damage that was done from this distance.

Sebastian lifts his head, and looks towards me. "Sir?" He addresses again, and I don't look to him as I push my body off the ground and come to a stand, lightly dusting my suit.

I pull my phone from my slack pocket and quickly dial a convenient number, the number of a family member who's quite good at handling corpses. Better yet, her services are free. "The pet's been put to sleep. I trust you can alter the reports in case Moran left any scraps behind in his excited haste. Don't be expecting me tomorrow. Later love." And without a reply, of approval, disapproval or understanding, I hung up and put the phone back in my pocket.

"Let's go." I simply say, voice hollow, as I turn towards the door in which we came from, ready to descend down the stairs, not bothering with the fire escape, not fond of running from the law, therefore having every bit of confidence in my stride, my cool demeanor.

I hear Sebastian unfasten his gun and deconstruct it with such precision it almost makes me laugh at how proud I am for having my hired men, as he then stands and follows me quietly.

**_Tomorrow_**, Sherlock, I decide. Tomorrow you'll fall from grace too.** Tomorrow** I'll be done with you. And there's no need to rush it.

Because what fun is to destroy you so quickly? But what fun is it to play with a broken man?

The bread crumbs I left behind, I wonder if you'll still be willing to follow them into the oven? Or bite the poisonous apple I bit into first?

The walk is silent, we exchange no words, and I do not look back towards your window as I unconsciously grin.


End file.
